Courage Stands Upon Meaning
If the materialists, with their necessary conclusion that purpose and meaning are illusions, had been our ancestors, would we be here today to write and read this post? Would they have been able to endure the hardships and misery of the centuries before the enlightenment? I think not. They would have given up, no matter how strong the gene-bluff. How can someone have courage when there is no meaning to stand on.
One of the most powerful true stories of enduring hardship through meaning is that of Viktor Frankl, a Jewish psychiatrist who survived the Holocaust and later wrote the influential book Man’s Search for Meaning.
Viktor Frankl was a respected neurologist and psychiatrist in Vienna when the Nazis came to power. In 1942, he and his family were deported to the Theresienstadt concentration camp. From there, he was sent to Auschwitz, then to Kaufering, a subcamp of Dachau. In these death camps, Frankl witnessed the worst of human suffering. His father, mother, brother, and pregnant wife all perished in the Holocaust. He was stripped of everything—his home, career, loved ones, and even his own dignity.
And yet, he endured.
Frankl observed that those who survived the camps were not necessarily the strongest or the most physically capable but those who had a reason to live—something greater than themselves. He recalled seeing prisoners who, despite starvation and brutality, found ways to lift each other up, to care for the weak, and to hold on to a sense of inner purpose. Those who had nothing left but still found meaning—whether through love, faith, or even the commitment to finishing an intellectual work—had the will to go on.
Frankl himself survived by clinging to a deep sense of purpose. As a psychiatrist, he saw suffering not as a meaningless tragedy but as an opportunity to find meaning. He mentally reconstructed the manuscript of a book he had been writing before his imprisonment, determined to one day publish it. He imagined reuniting with his wife, speaking to students, and helping others understand that life, no matter how painful, has intrinsic worth.
One particularly powerful moment came when he realized that, though the Nazis could control his body, they could not take his ability to choose his response. He wrote:
“Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms—to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way.”
This belief kept him alive. When the war ended and he was liberated, he turned his suffering into something that would help millions. Man’s Search for Meaning became one of the most influential books of the 20th century, arguing that the primary human drive is not pleasure or power nor survival, but meaning.
Frankl’s story proves that suffering alone does not break a person—the lack of meaning does. Those who see no meaning in their pain fall into despair. But those who find purpose, even in suffering, can endure anything.
Would an atheist who believes in no higher purpose have survived what Frankl did? Improbable, unless they reconsidered their nihilistic stand. Without a foundation for meaning, why keep going? Why fight to survive?
Frankl’s story is living proof that meaning is not an illusion—it is the very force that enables endurance in the face of unspeakable suffering.
During times of ease, the adherents of Illusion as an Explanation confidently deceive themselves into thinking they can live under the gene’s bluff. They dismiss purpose and meaning as illusions, only to justify their own continued existence with a shrug: “The gene makes me do it.” But that is not enough for survival. When hardship and suffering strike, this so-called “enlightenment” crumbles. The illusion shatters. The weight of meaninglessness becomes unbearable—and those who truly embrace it do not survive.
I have yet to meet a person who, while drowning in suffering, does not grapple for a sense of meaning as a way to sustain themselves. The few who don’t often take their own lives. Meanwhile, atheists like Richard Dawkins, Sam Harris, and Alex O’Connor sit in the safety of their ivory towers, sipping their coffee, intellectualizing claims that would dissolve in the fire of real suffering. They have the luxury of debating meaninglessness because they live in comfort. It’s comfort that allows them to go along with the gene-bluff.
Once, I asked God how He can judge the wealthy who seem to lead philanthropic lives. His answer struck my soul: “They seem good in their comfort, but if they were ever in the fire, they would curse My name.”
Only those who believe in meaning and purpose beyond themselves can endure life’s crucible. Dawkins, Harris, and O’Connor should fall to their knees in gratitude—not to their own reasoning, but to the faith of those who came before them. If our ancestors had believed as they do, they would have perished in despair, unable to face the brutality of millennia’s past, a time marked with misery. If atheism had become the prevailing meme, our anscestors would have perished. And had they perished, these men would have no platform, no audience, no life from which to mock the very belief that allowed them to exist.
They are like climate alarmists who jet across the world to preach against carbon emissions. They sit at their comfortable tables, scoffing at meaning, because suffering has not yet called their bluff. But if calamity were to come? If the fire of life engulfed them? Then the tantrum would begin. Then they would curse God and die—proud to do and say so.
Because in truth, they do not disbelieve in God; they hate the idea of Him. And suffering is their breaking point. Suffering is the ultimate test: do you stand with God or against Him? Maybe that is partly what suffering serves to do.
In the early days of Christianity, when the Roman Empire still held gladiatorial combat as a form of entertainment, there lived a monk named Telemachus. He was a quiet and devout man who had spent years in solitude, seeking God in the wilderness. But one day, he felt a stirring in his heart—a call to leave the peace of his monastery and go to Rome.
He did not know why. He only knew that he must obey.
When Telemachus arrived in Rome, he found the city abuzz with excitement. The Colosseum was filled with roaring crowds eager to witness the bloodshed of gladiatorial combat. Thousands had gathered to watch men fight to the death for sport, their cheers drowning out the cries of the dying.
Horrified, Telemachus saw the brutality before him. Two warriors clashed, swords flashing, as the audience jeered and laughed. And at that moment, he understood why God had brought him here.
He could not remain silent.
The small monk, dressed in his humble robes, climbed down from the stands and leaped into the arena. Dust rose as he landed between the two gladiators, arms outstretched.
“In the name of Christ, stop!” he cried.
For a moment, the warriors hesitated. The crowd fell silent. But then, a wave of anger surged through the spectators. Who was this nobody, daring to interrupt their entertainment?
The jeers returned. The cries to “Kill him!” rang out.
The gladiators looked to the emperor’s box for instruction. The command was given.
A sword plunged into Telemachus. He staggered, fell to his knees, and with his last breath, he cried again:
“In the name of Christ, stop!”
The Colosseum fell deathly silent. The thousands who had cheered for death moments before now watched in stunned silence as the monk’s body lay still in the dirt. His first exclamation seemed without weight, mere performance. His second meant he was willing to sacrifice his life for them to stop. The weight of his sacrifice crushed the spirit of the games.
According to historical accounts, this moment changed everything. Emperor Honorius, moved by Telemachus' death, issued an edict soon after, banning gladiatorial combat in Rome.
Telemachus’ test was not just about suffering—it was about enduring even unto death for what was right - not to the concept of right, but a reality that actually exists. He did not hesitate. He did not waver. He had no army, no power, no weapons—only meaning. And meaning was greater than he.
His endurance was not for himself, but for a cause greater than his life. Because of his unflinching stand, an empire’s thirst for blood was quenched, and an evil tradition ended.
Would a so-called enlightened atheists of today have done the same? Would they have stepped into the ring, knowing they would die, for something greater than themselves?
I am grateful that men like these were not our ancestors. If they had been, none of us would be here. They would have abandoned the fight, not necessarily for lack of courage, but because their courage would have nothing to stand upon. For courage stands upon meaning to sustain her. And for that sort of meaning - a meaning that is real and not the kind that is manufactured to escape the enlightenment - I am grateful.